


It’s A Matter Of Feeling Your Cotton Grace My Skin

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [15]
Category: Duran Duran
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe, Band Fic, Band split, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family Planning, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Hallucinations, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Moving On, Moving Out, Next step, Pining John, Reveals, Secrets, Separation, Trauma, light child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25067239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: They were both taking huge steps now, picking up the pieces to his heart. He wished he could find a comfort, baby too, anything but what he actually found.It’s not just his relationship with Simon that’s breaking.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	It’s A Matter Of Feeling Your Cotton Grace My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’m back. Lots of ideas keep coming for random cute Barbie moments to me but for reasons that I don’t need to put here, the motivation to write really isn’t unfortunately. Though thankfully this idea I’ve had fumbling about my head for a couple weeks now finally materialised this morning.
> 
> This does contain SPOILERS from my fourth fic in this series _Bird Of Paradise _if you haven’t read that. Though, good luck finding them. They’re well hidden...__

_Wednesday, September 17th 1986_

_Pinner, London  
  
_

Crying, in a fit of rage, he dove in deep to the pile and crap; thoroughly determined to be suffocated by said crap and never have to breech the surface again. It was endless, an on going battle, trying to hunt down all the belongings that tainted the otherwise pleasant and homely aura of this place – where he knew now, to perhaps no fault of his own or purely to all fault of his own, he didn’t belong in such a welcoming environment.

“Nobody said it was easy, just use your naked eyes!” He spat, being somewhat swallowed by the piles of junk he needed to fish out of there.

Clutching to his glasses, he whipped off his frames to swipe at the light sheen of sweat dousing his forehead. Dropping from his shaggy blonde roots, dissipating into the unkept brown that shot down his neck.

“Get your shit together, goddamnit. Where’s that damn watch?” He ruffled about through a bunch of shiny things. “Fudge, Barbie, did you and Nigel steal it again?”

His mind wandered back to one of the many times his parrot had waddled through his things and forced him into week long treasure hunts to find them.

“Damn parrot.”

He tossed another incompetent something or other onto the bed, earning him a squeal of shock and upset. Whipping his head up, he panicked, following the sound.

“Oh…” he swore, cutting himself off with a slap too his own wrist, “I’m sorry baby. Mummy is _so_ sorry.”

He was up to his feet, miraculously having clawed his way free of all the litter still threatening to swallow him up by his feet. He was on the bed now, cuddling her, kissing away the teeny trembling lip and running his calloused finger tips over the little red mark on her precious forehead.

“Sorry Barbie,” he kissed her chubby cheek, “I’m so sorry!”

He had felt guilty enough that he had to do this with her here. That Nick couldn’t take her today, he had Tatjana now – _told him not to name her after a flower and what does he do?!_ \- and it wouldn’t be fair to offload another infant. _At least she’s not also named after Jane Fonda._

Even now at fourteen months old, she had always been that one sacred step ahead of him. She had always and somehow continued to astonish him: Barbarella was aware her Mummy was hurting, hurting badly and she was trying to comfort him too but… there was a sigh.

He may or may not have lobbed a small lamp her way.

Now together they were rocking, random _So Misled_ lyrics dropping off of his pinky lips. She was still whining in his tight grip – _she misses the bangles_ \- emotions at a height. Fear and shock running through a tiny set of hard working veins. Fear, loathing and loneliness coursing through another set of perhaps even harder working veins: in immense need for some help. The rush, the thrill.

“Why don’t you give her to me?”

Through his own bleary gaze, he searched for the figure and voice. Long gone, never forgotten.

“You carry on packing. You know I hate packing.”

Nodding, there was no need to think it twice, he handed his beloved over.

The two bodies lay themselves back down on the king-size bed, he sighed in relief at the little happy babble that sounded from his baby. And just like that - _it’s a kind of magic with him, always_ – Barbarella was smiling again. His heart felt light, if only for a moment, before spinning about on his cuban heel.

He left the happiness, the hope and love that was Barbarella at his back again; for the _end all_ signs before him. Endless suitcases and black bags, tattered trinkets and souvenirs, clothes he would dare to step out of line and abuse.

Bar this production, someone better not give him a gun.  
  


“Hell hath no fury… um. Shit. When the chambers, you know, _empty_.” He spat, sinking to his knees.

“Always figured that line was about you.”

A scoff was his only rebuff.

He tried desperately, clinging to the merry vocals of the two of them at his back – his other half, as it once were – through his hasty folding and half assed cramming his bollocks into the suitcases. The man, who’s soft voice was flowing through the room again, had Barbarella in a tizzy. She was squealing, clapping, even drumming a little. Playing with Leonard. Shining, showing the Taylors really all that she can.

Behind him, they engaged in deep conversation. Whilst he, f’ing and blinding to himself with force, somehow kept mute.

A shrill scream, Barbarella was calling to him. Or, he was thoroughly convinced that once again: she was on his tail. She knew exactly what had happened, what left her Mummy reeling.

“Fw.. fwu.”

He didn’t turn around.

“Fwo.. fwog.”

He only rose to all fours.

“ _Fwoggee!_ ”  
  


He was a shivering mess now too, clutching aimlessly at the flimsy cotton he held.

Deafened by Barbarella’s hollers, they were almost matched by his own, he sank to the bed. Without enough strength, he found himself clattering back to the floor; landing on it.

_It… you mean?_

He had a face full of black fabric. Littered with blocky serif font, strange silver accents, drawings and pathways.

_His…_

The sleeves were still turned back. The collar still stretched and torn ever so slightly.

_Did he give it to him? And he kept it?!_

It was hot to the touch, burning him, though he couldn’t fling it away; couldn’t throw it back to the floor. He couldn’t bury it either, the cotton was stuck to him or something. He couldn’t bare to toss it, only clutching at it tighter.

“ _Fwoggeeee!_ ” She chimed.

“Will ya shut the _fuck_ up?!” He hollered, whipping about so fast he could’ve sworn he heard a crack. “Christ! Say his name, damn you!”

A deathly silence. Two widened brown eyes caught each other, both gazes watery.

And just like that, Barbarella broke into a heart wrenching string of tears. The water was running so fast down her little cheeks, her face was flush, and not even waggling Leonard The Lion in her face could help to tame the deathly cries that rang out through the bedroom.

For whatever reason, she was now untouchable. For whatever reason, knowing exactly what he was clutching, he couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t reach out to touch _him_ , who the garment really belonged too.

He didn’t exactly apologise, already ogling back over the Duranie favourite and so-called:

“Space Shirt,” he let out in a whine, bringing the fabric up towards his face. “He kept it, the... the _bastard!_ ”

Within moments, the space shuttles and weird windy yellow roads were mopping up his own tears. Stuffing the fabric into his face, he engulfed a shaky exhale. He could _smell_ him, _taste_ him, senses he would never forget. The light musk, lacking in confidence and by in no means an attention-whore; he snorted that up. Rolled it, chopped it, sniffed it: he had himself a new high.

His name was carried by the wind.

_Can’t believe the twat kept it._

There was a hand at his shoulder.

_And didn’t think to bleeding tell me._

It went without saying that he missed the man terribly, _both_ of them, it went without saying that he hadn’t coped.

_He kept it._

The hand was frozen, icy, sending shocks all through him.

_He kept it hidden. We don’t like being kept in the dark, here._

A gruelling year had miraculously passed since their inevitable split, he hadn’t even been in the country when the last of his band bid them goodbye.

_Why did he fucking keep it?_

Even through the leopard print he wore, the hat that had long fallen from his head, he could feel every inch of that hand. Could feel every callous, every cut and bruise. Could mark them out even, he knew those sticks weren’t easy: no matter how often he had shrugged off the pain.

Trying, schooling his already foggy brain into ‘nothing’, he pointlessly attempted to not think about him. To not relive every moment, every dream, every cocaine induced trauma: that had resulted in seeing the man.

The hand had rounded itself to his cheek, suddenly scorching hot that he winced, reminded his heavy head just _who_ was right there.

“Why didn’t you give it me?! Ruddy keepsake.”

He was hit by the literal freight train. What was he on? How much had he…

“Oh fuck.”  
  


His head shot up, the shirt flowed sombrely on the breeze. It collided to the floor with an audible thud.

“Oh fuck!” He groaned, still shivering, bringing both huge hands around himself.

It wasn’t a hug, it was more of a strain. Wrapping himself so tight, tears threatening to roll again, he clutched tight to _them_ , his beauties, who again he was giving a fighting chance at survival.

“When will it end?” He sniffed, falling back onto the bed. He was met by a face full of screaming daughter – only retaliation throwing his hands over his own weeping eyes. “When will I, you know… fuckin’ _learn?!_ ”

“When you’re not seeing me, that means you’ve done something right.”

He bolted upright.

“Not like this, anyway.”

He whirled around.

“You’ve got to stop, not just for your… _family_.” Another gruelling hesitation, he sent his teeth plummeting into his bottom lip. “For your own sanity. You get crazier, more malicious, more… fuck, _uncontrollable_ every time. I. _See_. You.”

Letting a single hot streak pelt his cheek, he nodded.

“Or when you. See. Me. Eyes of a stranger.”

He was panting softly, anything to stabilise his breathing.

“Come here, come to me.”

_Why is he trying to follow me?_

They were gleaming now, a golden sheen highlighted every muscle, every groove. They were backlit, his hero, with piercing brown eyes that forced him to hold his gaze.

_How many reasons, does he need?_

“Didn’t you hear me?” There was a scoff - _oh the irony._ “You’re singing _New Religion_ in your head again, aren’t you? _Only get one look before you die._ ”

“Yeah.”

There was a shrug. “Better that than _Careless Memories_ – not very original. You always had that one on, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Will you just bring the damn shirt to me?

He obeyed, shakily rising to his feet.

“Grab the shirt.” They sounded frustrated.

“Oh yeah, right.” He didn’t know how it again lay lifeless in his grip.

Now they were stood at eye level, which was strange. Usually he had to look down, craning his neck, though this time: he was being dwarfed by a much mightier, more _stable_ , power.

“Give it to me.”

“It’s… is it yours?” He asked, coy, immediately berating himself for letting slip a sound.

“Can’t help yourself.”

_From what? Talking for free?_

“Something to see.” There was a nod. He considered.

“Or does the shirt belong too… uh, you know…” He gestured wildly, to the screeching infant – “where the fuck is my— oh!”

Barbarella was now before him too, being hushed, cradled. She too was basked in that heavenly golden glow, clutching tight to those maroon leather gloves and smushing her teary face into that white linen shirt. He wondered why the glow wasn’t blue.

“Is it _who’s_ shirt?”

He visibly blanked, tears threatening to burst another dam if he merely opened his mouth to let out the—

Staggering his gait, he engulfed a stupidly large breath and barely let slip the sound: “Ahem... _Simon?_ ”

He held it together, gnawing at his cuticles. The ultimate tell tale sign that he was nervous, poorly hiding behind it. A solemn nod, mostly covered by his hand as he chomped away.

“Excuse me?”

He forced away his fingers, hands dropping back to his side. Instead of nodding, reaching forward, he was trying to clasp at Barbarella who was drifting away so peacefully before him, also coated in the golden tractor beam.

“Y-yes… is it yours or, uh, h.. _his?_ I could never tell, he would wear it a bunch too.”

There was a laugh, if he shut his eyes he was bound to not be able to reopen them without crying. If he shut his eyes he would be painting pictures of the man, using that heavenly laugh, he’d see it. All of it. The way his gorgeous lips cocked up, brandishing that gleaming smile. How his face contorted, knowing he had savoured every precious wrinkled line that would form on that otherwise smooth face.

“It’s mine, you cheeky sod, from _C &A _down in _The Bull Ring_. Now hurry up, Simon’ll be back soon. Finish packing your stuff and get out of here, I’m not watching another bomb drop between the two of you if you run into, _from_ him.”

“Nu-cle-ar _war_.” He pointed out, for emphasis.

“ _Yo Bad Azzizi_ as a Nuc-le-ah war, still. Now hurry up man, get your stuff out of his apartment.”

“Move it all out.” He stated.

  
“That’s what you came here for, right? What you want.”

“Move it _all_ out.”

“Yep, all of it.” Together, they confirmed.

He just knew, pulling that damn space shirt off to pray, that he couldn’t keep doing this. Whatever this was. Careless memory after memory, wallowing in the pitiful image he created and savoured of—

  
His hands stalled, tying up another black bag of broken dreams.

“Are you crying again? I really don’t have time for this and neither do you, really.”

Choking out a pitiful cry, he abandoned the bag and headed to clutch at Barbarella. Within moments, kicking the other bags aside and not caring to decipher what not precious trinket he had just heard smash, he caught her and she was softly dozing over his springy leopard print shoulder pad.

  
_Why is Mummy wearing shoulder pads? Why are we all?! -_ it rang in tones of blue and silver.

Together they plonked themselves back atop of the bed, observing the huge mess that still was the floor. “‘Ello?”

Eyes wide, pupils blown disgustingly wide, his mouth was moving much faster than his head could keep up with. He was sputtering nonsense, incoherence, whatever. She was shivering somewhat in his grip as she slept, he could feel his Blue and Silver rocking slowly within him, without ease.

_Where had the light gone?_

“‘Ello? Hey, man where did you...” a pause to search under the bed, “‘ello? What did I even do this time?” He cut himself off, shaking the mullet from his eyes.

He had let them all down, all four band mates or not band mates. Simon, especially. Again, as always.

“Barbie, where in bleedin’ hell did he go?” Motioning to the sleeping baby, he cocked his head and groaned.

  
Simon wanted nothing to do with him, which was no easy task. Band or no band.

_  
Isn’t he trying to follow me?_

Simon would be back in any moment, he needed to get out of there.

“For the love of— ‘El-fuckin’-lo?”

_I guess gone are the reasons, he may need._

  
He tried once more, almost certain.

  
“Do you want to say hi to, you know,” he swallowed, “Daddy?” Then, small and defeated, “I don’t think I can, baby.”

_It’s us who make the noise._

The infamous shared Duran Space Shirt was no where to be seen.

“Rog?”

Neither was Roger.


End file.
